Sensory Deprivation
by AudeTheThird
Summary: It is the best kind of therapy, writing. In these worlds, with these words. I create, I destroy, I design. Steal Will Graham away from a crime scene and take him to a hotel to get him some sleep. Self insert. Cute? Sad. Maybe sad.


I put my hands over his ears and steer him away from the blood. I don't speak and don't listen, and though he protests, it is half hearted, necessary only until we are out of sight. I take his phone and turn it off, tucking it into my front pocket.

I put him in the passenger seat and turn my music onto low. It's some angry rock-chick, raw and screaming, but as background music, it's soothing. It's an echo of frustrations that we can't voice, and it feels like pulling the stopper out of the bottle in my chest. Breathing is easier.

He leans his head on the window; I have to lean across and click his seat belt in because the last thing I want is to have a car accident and have him fly through a window. The idea is to protect him.

I drive for hours. We seem to pass through seasons as we go, and though night is the only thing that approaches with the state line, I feel like a heaviness is weighing us both down, baring upon our backs with shark eyes. The music is switched off after restarting itself for the fourth time, and his hand settles on my knee, blood shot eyes trained on my face.

"Where are we going?"

"Away."

"I have to work."

"No."

"I can help them."

"You can," is the pleasent reply I give. "But not this time."

He looks away, but the hand remains. I apply my palm to it and squeeze his fingers.

It's selfish of us both but he needs it, and I need it a little bit. I am not as empathetic as him but I feel his pain; I read, in his face, a novel of miseries he internalizes. I recognise the loneliness festering in him, that same rotting mass in me, too. It is not a final solution, but it is a reprieve, and how nice it is to play the hero.

Only when the car begins to become physically unbearable on spine, fists, eyes and thighs, I stop. It is the goal to find a quiet niche in the world, and book a room with a king size bed, and I believe it's a mission accomplished. Reception is done in solid blue, sweet cream and gold, the attendant old and matronly. The front door handles mismatch but they're shiny and homely and this is exactly what I'm looking for.

I unwind him from where he's curled into himself on the front seat and sweating, tuck my hands over his forearm after locking the doors behind me.

"How long've I been asleep?"

I hadn't seen him close his eyes, wasn't aware he was dreaming. I was consumed with running, driving, with finding a place _away._

"What time is it?"

"About six." I murmur. "It's nearly time for me to leave."

There are twelves steps between upper and lower floors, and I know this because I count every one of them with a short exhale just this side of a sob. I'm physically so tired and emotionally so upset but he is my first priority and I can't rest until he's safe within the confines of his own mind.

I sit him on the bed with a hand on his shoulder and turn to lock the front door. I drag the empty wardrobe over and bar it with that, proceeding to lock the bathroom windows and draw the curtains.

I want it contained. I want it quiet. I want it warm.

I kneel before him and remove his shoes, socks and jeans, his jacket and long sleeve shirt. He watches with a disjointed fascination, blank eyes unblinking as I move over his clothes with not so much as a maidenly blush. I offer him what I think is a smile but don't receive one in return, and my heart breaks a little bit more.

I have to coax him into lying down. It takes around three and a half minutes of stubborn, silent head shaking before he bows his head in reluctant defeat and puts his head on the pillow. His eyes are still blank, still wide open.

I take off my clothes, pull on his long sleeved shirt and discarded socks, and drag the covers out from underneath him. When I get into bed behind him, he seems to wake up try and protest, try and call the age card.

"You're _nineteen_-" he starts, mortified, but I cover him with the blankets and he deflates. He is facing me now, looking sad.

"Not today." is my kind reply.

I try and wipe that unhappy line off his face with soft fingertips but it doesn't work. Absently, my hand settles on his cheek, thumb swiping over his bone structure. His stubble is something new to me and I trace it with my nail. This is the only place we touch, but I feel him with decided intimacy.

"Aude."

"Hm?"

"What are you doing?"

"Sensory deprivation." I say it so quietly, like it's such a bad thing. I crack a grin. "It's my design."

His response is a grimace. He feels like a patient to be studied, but I shake my head.

"Just- be, here. Away from noise. Away from brightness."

"Away from helping." is his bitter reminder, but he shuffles closer, wiggles into a grove that isn't his own. He must be used to that. My hand slides up, fingers rub his temple. His lids flutter closed and he exhales through his nose. He looks disappointed; still looks sad.

"Go to sleep."

"It's six pm."

"You need rest."

"I should be back there."

"Should be, could be, would be."

"You're a child."

"I know."

The smile I give him then is not a nice smile. It's a mere representation of human happiness, it is not actual. It is not able to be measured. It is empty.

"Please get some sleep." I say, and I know I'm sad, and lonely, and lost, but so is he. And being acutely aware of the view points of others - even those that sicken him, upset him - that can't help.

"I'm hearing things."

"What things?"

He swallows the answer like a mouthful of sand. _Bad things._ He won't share it with me if he can keep me from it. I tuck my hand over the back of his neck and steer his head down to my chest, tilt his head so his ear is on my sternum.

"Listen to my breathing." is my whispered advice. "My heart beating. Ground yourself in it. It is real, and it is safe."

"You're warm."

"I'm alive."

"Not used to it."

"I know." I run fingers over his scalp, draw curly patterns on the back of his t-shirt, on scapula and knobbled spine.

He eases into sleep like an old jumper, and I have to leave.

* * *

I have so many feelings. *wails*


End file.
